


Open

by goresque



Series: The Old Aren’t Alright [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Dissociation, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Platonic Relationships, Rape Recovery, Therapy, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goresque/pseuds/goresque
Summary: Ratchet is encouraged during his recovery to admit to the wrong done to him. Rung pushes him to confide in someone outside of his therapy.Ratchet tells exactly who he thought he wouldn’t.
Relationships: Ratchet & Knock Out
Series: The Old Aren’t Alright [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523006
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	Open

**Author's Note:**

> This is an addendum to “The Road Forged By Legacy” and references the scene which Ratchet is drugged and assaulted before Megatron can kill his attacker. This fic deals with the trauma associated with attempted rape and recovery from it. The way Ratchet deals with his recovery is not right for everyone, and he can’t talk about his feeling anyway so don’t listen to him.
> 
> There are recollections of rape in this story, so please take caution if this could trigger you.
> 
> Anyway Ratchet and Knock Out drinking buddies for life

“You should tell someone,” Rung insisted, his hands folded together in a neat pile on his thighs. He wasn’t frowning, but Ratchet could tell by the determined reassurance in his EM field that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “About your assault.”

“I did,” Ratchet snapped back the instant he could. His field folded in against his core and he drew back. Rung’s assuredness that he would agree turned him off of the idea immediately. “I told you. Besides I wasn’t-” His vocalizer refused the glyph. “Nothing happened to me.”

“You were drugged, and fully aware when your attacker attempted to sexually assault you,” Rung said, his glyphs blunt yet tactful. His field still radiated _safety-comfort-encouragement,_ like he wasn’t slapping Ratchet across the face with his own experiences. Rung seemed to sag after he said it, as if regretting how forward he’d been. His tone was softer then, “You were traumatized, Ratchet. It’s not my place to tell you how you feel, but it is my job as your therapist to tell you when damage has been done.”

“I’m not damaged,” Ratchet snuck in, faceplate turning a shameful, deep blue. 

“No,” Rung said, easily agreeing, “But you’ve been hurt. That’s not speculation, that’s not theory. You have been hurt, Ratchet. Part of moving on from hurt is admitting how painful it is.”

“I did,” Ratchet repeated, the glyphs coming weaker this time, unsure. He knew where this was going, and he knew Rung was right. He hated how every piece of his emotional puzzle fell into place with Rung’s words, as if he had dissected his processor itself. Ratchet turned his helm, arms coming over his bumper, as if to place a barrier between Rung and his spark.

“Ratchet?” Rung whispered, searching for Ratchet’s optics. When he met them he said, “May I hold your servo?

Though he eyed his therapist with suspicion, Ratchet offered up his servo. The hands that encompassed it were small and smooth, had seen worse experiences than Ratchet ever had. Guilt plagued him for pushing Rung away when all that was being offered to him was support. Rung’s field and his servos imparted the simple desire to comfort with nothing held back, nothing waiting in the shadows to be sprung on Ratchet later. It was safe. _Rung_ was safe. 

That was why telling anybody else was so scary. 

“You’ve admitted it to yourself,” Rung whispered to him, his optical ridges tilted in to express the deep concern he held for his colleague. Ratchet hated the absolute resolution in Rung to be so _good_ to everyone around him. “You’ve admitted it to me. It’s a step. But you must understand that expressing it to me is like writing in a journal. I’m your confidant, Ratchet. A locked box.”

“You’re safe,” Ratchet murmured. His other servo clenched into a fist in his lap. The thought of expressing what he’d shown to Rung to any other mech had his tank rolling.

“Are you concerned you won’t be believed?” Rung asked, giving Ratchet’s hand another squeeze. Ratchet couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away despite how the contact made his plating crawl like scraplets were gnawing at him.

“No,” Ratchet murmured, leaning his forehead into his free servo. “I’m afraid they’ll pity me.”

Rung nodded along with his words, then leaned back in his chair to consider them. “I see. That’s a valid fear, Ratchet. To be seen as less-than because of something that’s happened to you. Does that sound right?”

Ratchet grit his dentae and uncrossed his arms with some work, untangling his professor in order to make his frame listen to him. “They’re going to think I’m weak.”

“Who?” Rung pushed. Ratchet hated how much thought Rung put into his questions, into the things that made Ratchet stop and think. 

It took him several kliks to come up with an answer, though Rung made no move to hurry him along. Finally, Ratchet murmured, “‘Aid and Knock Out.”

That seemed to be the answer Rung was waiting for. He leaned forward in his seat once more and folded his servos in that way that made Ratchet wonder if he had found a new way to “fix” him. Rung often admonished him for using those glyphs, but Ratchet was loathe to think of this as anything other than an attempt to piece together a broken spark.

“I think we’ve broken down quite a few walls today,” Rung said, sounding pleased with the results. “My homework for you after this is to consider who you would like to tell. We can discuss your options next time. There’s no rush to tell anyone now, or even soon. What I want is for you to come to a decision on _who_ before the when.”

“You’re not going to let me just bottle it up like any other sane mech, are you?” Ratchet grunted, derma setting into a disgruntled line. 

“No, I am not,” Rung hummed, rising to his pedes before offering Ratchet his servo. “As I said, don’t focus on when you want to tell someone else. Think about who you would feel comfortable admitting it to. Any choices you make regarding disclosure are yours to make, and I will never force you to talk about this to anyone else if you think about it and choose not to. However, I want you to consider all possibilities. You have opportunities to ask for support, and I encourage you to take them.”

Asking for the support. Lending himself to being helped. That was all Rung seemed to talk about. When was it too much? When would he reach the limit of how many times or how much help he could ask for? Mecha weren’t unlimited sources of kindness and thoughtfulness. 

Well. Mecha other than Rung at least. 

“Is there anything you’d like to mention before we wrap up for the day?” Rung asked, more politeness than much else. The question was a formality at this point- Rung practically had to pull dentae to get Ratchet to admit to something.

That was why Ratchet had to throw a wrench into his process. “Does Megatron count?”

Unsurprisingly, Rung was not deterred. He smiled and shook his head, a melodious chuckle escaping him. He gave Ratchet that coy smile that always froze Ratchet’s spark in anticipation. “You know what I’m going to tell you. Now,” Rung clapped his servos together decisively and rose to his pedes. “Shall we clear up for the cycle? I hate to rush you, but I have a prior engagement this evening.”

Ratchet didn’t ask what plans Rung had, it was unlikely he would answer. Rung always had tight lips about his personal life- though it stung Ratchet to know he and Rung would never quite make that shift from coworkers to friends. Instead he walked with Rung to the staff room and opened his locker. He pretended to rummage through his meager belongings as he waited for Rung to pack up and leave. His own trek home wasn’t nearly as far as Rung’s.

“Goodnight, Ratchet,” Rung called to him from the door, “Take care.”

“You too,” Ratchet said, out of habit rather than thought. His frame felt numb as he shut up his locker and took what felt like endless steps towards the lift. It creaked as its doors parted, then again as it swallowed him behind them.

Two floors up, Ratchet exited into the tiny loft that housed three small habsuites. The lift opened up to a small common area with a holoscreen, two sofas, and a small table. Inside, Ratchet was greeted to the view of Knock Out wiping a chamois along his arm plates.

A decanter of high grade and a half filled cube sat on the small table. Knock Out’s evening tradition had yet to change- a wash, a buff, and a cube of Engex.

“How was therapy for the old mech?” Knock Out purred, waving his chamois in Ratchet’s direction. He looked a pretty picture lounging along the whole of one couch. His smirk turned coy and there was a crude sparkle in his optics as he said, “Ready to spill all those dirty fantasies? The doctor is in.”

“Brat,” Ratchet snapped back, giving Knock Out’s leg a smack as he passed by him to the communal wash racks. Knock Out’s teasing was something he’d gotten used to since rooming with the ex-con. Originally it had been his duty to oversee Knock Out’s integration into polite Autobot society, and had somehow developed into a comfortable routine of two mecha who somehow, despite their differences, made living together work.

Ratchet ignored Knock Out’s cry of “I just buffed that, you brute!” in favor of the washracks. He futzed with the knobs and settings as the chilly spray came down, holding his position until it could heat up. 

It took him another several minutes before he shouted through the door, “You used all the hot solvent again, you derelict!”

* * *

Ratchet wished he could stop staring at First Aid. 

Every time his apprentice came around the corner from his station Ratchet found himself caught in the thought of what First Aid would think of him should he find out he had been… assaulted. It still hurt his spark to process the glyph. Rung had been working on encouraging him to be kinder to himself with regard to the guilt he felt about calling himself a victim. It still hasn’t quite took. 

“Ratchet?”

Ratchet snapped his attention to First Aid, who had somehow come close enough to touch him. He stared at the servo on his arm, wondering how he’d missed it.

“Yes?” he finally said, realizing he hadn’t even responded. He must really be out of his processor. 

“You look… well, are you alright? You keep zoning out. Is your processor glitching?” First Aid seemed genuinely worried for him. That alone made Ratchet’s tank clench with _rejection._ He didn’t want First Aid to worry about him.

“No,” he said, uncharacteristically quiet. Ratchet fiddled with the laser pen in his servos. Before First Aid could respond again Ratchet steeled himself, and decided to test the waters. “Aid, I’ve got a patient I need your opinion on.”

“Yes, Ratchet?” First Aid’s visor widened just barely, as if Ratchet seeking his opinion were a surprise.

Ratchet tried not to tense up. He wished First Aid wasn’t so _eager._ “I’ve got a mech who… who was drugged, and nearly forced to interface. A passerby stopped it from happening, and they’re seeing a psychologist already. They’re struggling with reaching out for support.”

First Aid seemed to be waiting for more information, and when he wasn’t given any he took a moment to let it sink in. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do then, is there? Besides listen and be as sympathetic as possible?”

Ratchet’s pauldrons sagged with what felt like relief. First Aid would _listen_ , if nothing else. Before he could say anything else, First Aid began again.

“That’s so sad, isn’t it?” First Aid said with a soft sigh, as if feeling whimsical. “I’ve never been through anything like that, but I would hope I would be able to ask for help. It makes me feel bad for them…”

Ratchet froze up at the glyphs. The warmth of his frame crept out of him like a leak. The tremble of his servo was all that showed, despite how torn up his tank felt. He faded into the hazy fog he had grown used to when facing his trauma, turning away from First Aid. He couldn’t bare looking at him anymore, after hearing how much First Aid pitied him. 

“Ratchet?” First Aid said, his tone pitched up. “Was I wrong?”

“There’s no wrong answer,” Ratchet muttered, pulling up the hardened shield he had mastered over four million years of war. He said, as an afterthought, “You did good, mechling.”

Ratchet hated himself even more when First Aid buffeted him with a field of gratitude.

* * *

That evening, Ratchet came to his shared habsuite with an aching spark, and didn’t even have the energy to greet Knock Out.

“You look even worse for wear than usual, rusty old bucket,” Knock Out hummed, sliding his chamois between his digits. He didn’t even bother looking up. Ratchet didn’t know why, but that was a comfort. He didn’t want the judgement of Knock Out’s gaze.

“Can it,” Ratchet muttered, kicking Knock Out’s legs off the sofa to make room for himself. “When did you wash?”

“Just a joor ago,” Knock Out chuckled, waggling his sharp digits in Ratchet’s direction. “Feel free to take the cold remains.”

Instead, Ratchet let his helm rest back against the sofa and vented out long and hard. “I’ve had a slag day,” he muttered, gritting his jaw as he did so. He wished he hadn’t admitted it. Now Knock Out would ask why. 

“A shame,” Knock Out hummed, tossing the chamois onto the table. Ratchet took notice the decanter of high grade was absent. Instead of asking why Ratchet felt the way he did, Knock Out went about checking his armor for any blemishes.

Typical, Ratchet thought.

And yet, as typical as it was of Knock Out, it was comforting. Knock Out didn’t ask hard questions. 

Without thinking, Ratchet blurted out, “I was almost raped last vorn.”

He didn’t know why he’d said it. He hadn’t even thought about telling Knock Out, honestly. He was loathe to show any weaknesses to the ex-con, though he knew Knock Out wouldn’t lash out at any himself. Sell him down the river? Too possible to forget about. 

Ratchet was so caught up in his own rationalization he didn’t notice Knock Out standing until he exited his vision. Ratchet whipped around to watch the red mech stroll to a subspace generator, and then pull out his favorite decanter of high grade and two cubes. He filled both cubes, and then handed one to Ratchet before he sat back onto the sofa once more. 

Neither of them spoke for a moment as they sipped their cubes. Ratchet’s processor tingled with questions. In the end it was Knock Out who asked one first.

“Why tell me?” he asked, slinging an arm along the back of the couch. The way he sat was casual, and gave Ratchet a distinct whiff of the polish he used. Knock Out looked impeccable as always; Ratchet found himself growing annoyed with just how perfect the racer looked at any given moment. 

“I don’t know,” he muttered, hiding behind his cube. “I tried to tell First Aid, but…”

Knock Out looked at him expectantly. Ratchet found himself having to swallow another gulp of highly charged fuel before he could go on. “But he… he doesn’t understand. I couldn’t tell him.”

Knock Out nodded along. He didn’t ask what happened, or how Ratchet felt. Instead, what he said was, “Whether it’s a good habit it not, I find triple filtered Vosian jet-grade to be an excellent way to reminisce on unsavory memories.”

Ratchet only grunted, and knocked back his cube. Whatever they were drinking was definitely not that classy. However, he allowed Knock Out to fill his cube again. It took another sip for him to go on, “I was trying to get cratered when it happened. Mech came up to me and bought me a drink. It was drugged.”

Though his cube was more than half full, Knock Out leaned forward and topped it off for him. It made something in Ratchet’s tank crawl. 

“Some mecha have no care for who they hurt,” Knock Out said, sounding like he was making an effort to comfort Ratchet. Ratchet wasn’t sure he liked it. Regardless, Knock Out switched tactics quickly, “Before the war I did cosmetics. Paint jobs, decals. Just my line of work, don’t you think?” Knock Out laughed around his own words, and looked off into the ceiling. It reminded Ratchet of how he often felt. “Well, I was painting up this big brute one orn. Not bad looking, and you know my type. As any young valve mech would think, I counted myself lucky when he showed interest in me.”

Ratchet could see where Knock Out slowed his recounting of the memory, where Knock Out blinked just a little less and lost himself in the fog that had become so comfortable and familiar to Ratchet.

“Well,” Knock Out said, seeming to come back to himself, “He used a shock baton to disrupt my hydraulics and had his way with me in the back maintenance room of my workplace.”

Ratchet was taken aback by how easily Knock Out delivered his experience, until he remembered how carelessly he had brought up his own. A cold, dark sensation spread through his tank and through his lines, like he’d been given an infusion of ice water at the thought of Knock Out, no matter how absurd and frustrating, undergoing such a horrid experience.

“I don’t know what to say,” Ratchet admitted, shifting in his seat. He stared down into his Engex, barely gathering the courage to look up at his flatmate. 

Knock Out was smiling, rather than the blank look Ratchet had seen before. “Don’t say anything then, mech. Merely revel in the shared experience of another tortured spark.”

That got a snort out of Ratchet, and a wry smile. He hid it behind his cube. “Poetic. Don’t think my spark is nearly tortured enough, though.”

Knock Out have a dramatic roll of his optics. “How _old_ are you again?”

“Shut up, brat,” Ratchet grunted, flicking a drop of his high grade at the racer, followed by a highly exaggerated gasp of offense. “I come at you with my star-sabered aft ending up in a bad situation, and you fire back with that?”

“Did I hurt your poor, Autobot feelings?” Knock Out crooned, leaning forward to swipe a claw down Ratchet’s arm. As he settled back down he looked more sober, despite how he’d taken several sips of his high grade. “Despite what you might think, it’s not about that.”

“What’s it about then?” Ratchet asked, watching as Knock Out straightened up once more and turned his body to completely face Ratchet.

“You think I had it so much worse,” Knock Out said, resting his cube on his knee. He stretched out his pedes until they laid across Ratchet’s lap, which for _some reason_ he didn’t push off. “You’re thinking in that silly Autobot line of thought that you had it so much easier, despite how for me it happened half an eon ago.”

“And?” Ratchet sputtered, setting his derma in a firm line. “That doesn’t make it any worse that it happened to you?”

Another emphatic roll of Knock Out’s optics. “Yes, of course. You said this happened to you a vorn ago. And let me guess, I’m the very first you’ve told, considering your epic failure at telling young, fresh sparked First Aid?”

Ratchet’s angry flush answered Knock Out’s question before he could. “Of course I am,” Knock Out scoffed. “Regardless, I’ll tell you this.” Then Knock Out leaned in and gave Ratchet’s leg a couple pats. “It gets easier when you’re older.”

Ratchet couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing and crouched over his cube, light streaming from his optics. His armor rattled with the laughter that shook him. It was surreal, how absurd the situation felt. And yet, it was comforting at the same time. 

“Fancy that,” Ratchet snorted, once he’d found his vocalizer again, “You telling me how things will be when I’m old.”

This time it was Knock Out’s turn to hide his smile behind his cube. He took a sip and lowered it. Ratchet saw what looked like whimsy on the racer’s faceplate, and opted to pass up on a chance to tease him for it. Then, Knock Out held up his cube. 

“To getting old,” he said, that crude twinkle returning to his optics. “Time heals all wounds, really. Even invisible ones.”

Ratchet held up his cube, before taking a long drink. “You’ve got a lot to look forward to, brat. Wait until your high performance engine starts making your oil pan crack.”

“It will _what_?”

The look of horror on Knock Out’s features was all it took to get another laugh out of Ratchet.

**Author's Note:**

> Not pictured: Rung going “what the fuck I told you to think about it not fly off the handle”
> 
> But you know, politely


End file.
